


The Shaking

by Pageling



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Beauty and the Beast Elements, Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Insanity, M/M, Maybe - Freeform, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Slow Burn, Stockholm Syndrome, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, everyone learns a good lesson in the end
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-18
Updated: 2016-08-15
Packaged: 2018-05-27 10:55:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6281767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pageling/pseuds/Pageling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Steve Rogers goes looking for trouble, he finds it. HYDRA gets fed up with the man sticking his nose where it doesn't belong, and delivers him to the Winter Soldier, stationed at a HYDRA base where his skills are put to good use. Steve Rogers needs the Winter Soldier in order to survive his new life, and the Winter Soldier wants nothing to do with the man who causes more trouble than he's worth. An unlikely bond is formed and blossoms into something new, and dangerous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve Rogers meets the Winter Soldier

As the tiny coordinate dots representing settlements flicker and silently wink out one by one on his map, the asset feels neither satisfaction nor regret. It is not the asset’s job to care. To have an opinion. By pressing the button to release HYDRA’s latest volleys of missiles, the man at the desk before him has effectively just ended the lives of hundreds of people, all in the breadth of a minute. The man looks sweaty yet cold, and the asset knows it is out of fear of the asset’s presence and the promise of what he can do. The asset has done his job, and he has done it well. If the asset did not prowl through the halls of HYDRA’s most efficiently kept secret base, deep in the bowels of frigid Russia, none of the workers here would do their jobs. The asset is a silent threat. A way to reinforce and reassert HYDRA authority. He must always be present for the planning of new attacks, and the times of well oiled chaos when an attack is carried out. The asset has orders to kill any agent who shows signs of insubordination or even hesitation in the face of orders. Aside from that, the asset is free to roam and observe as he pleases. It is his job.

 The asset is the guard dog, who rather than barking at slackers and traitors, comes to slit their throats in the dead of night, so silently the roommates often never even know their comrade has been eliminated until the morning. His mere presence is enough to ensure that no agent would even dare to dream of being caught slacking, or arguing with their superiors. It’s always the new ones that slip up, too ignorant to realize that the silent figure in the shadows is just as deadly as he looks, and that he is not here to protect them like they all assume.

With his current task completed and the man at the keyboard nearly shaking by now with the dread of the knife he likely assumes is coming, the asset turns and stalks silently towards the door. The man has done his job, and he will live another day. No words are needed. With most of the agents retired to their quarters for now and no more major events requiring his presence scheduled, the asset decides to make his surveillance rounds through the base before retiring himself. The air is raw and biting underground, even out of the way of the wind. The asset’s mask keeps his breath from fogging and his dark fatigues are effective, but the asset has always felt cold. He’s learned not to mind by now.

 After spending much too long in the empty submarine bays, watching the glacial water lap at the decrepit concrete walls, the asset is surprised to hear a noise. This late, it is rare for any agents to be walking around, let alone causing a commotion. People are good at walking to and from their shifts in near silence when he’s around, and no one ever yells unless they are training or in the mess hall. The asset draws his handgun with familiar ease and quickly makes his way toward the source of the ruckus. If there is a fight, it will be the asset’s job to break it up, and potentially terminate the party at fault. He knows he must hurry.

 The first voice he recognizes is that of Agent Rumlow, thick and ashy like cigarette smoke. Agent Rumlow is a man who floats throughout the base without any true rank or title, just like the asset. The asset knows that most of the other agents simply call Agent Rumlow “Crossbones,” just as the agents call the asset “The Winter Soldier.” He supposes their respective titles are fitting, in a cruel way. The words transform them into more than men, make them legends. It’s good for keeping the rest of the agents in line.

 The HYDRA base is vast, but the asset is swift and knows the halls and chambers better than anyone, and could navigate them with his eyes shut. As the asset draws closer to the noise, he hears raw screaming and yelling in a language that takes him a moment to process. It’s English. An American is here, and the sounds of a dirty scuffle echo through the halls. Agent Rumlow is loud, and cursing just as often as he is laughing. It’s a rough, cacophonous sound. Rounding one last corner of the echoey labyrinth, the asset is met with a sight that nearly stuns him.

 Agent Rumlow has a very small, very bloody blond man pinned to one of the rough concrete walls, and the contrast between the two men is striking. Where Agent Rumlow is dark and smudged, the small man is golden and bright. Agent Rumlow is tall, all bulk and thick lines, and the man with his face pressed into the wall is short, thin. He would have been almost willowy if the asset didn’t see the razor sharp hints of his form beneath the dilapidated clothes. The angles in him spoke of a fighter. It takes the asset a moment longer than can be permitted to notice the knife still settling at the men’s feet, a sheen of blood over the serrated blade. The knife is Rumlow’s, but he is the one bleeding. The smaller man must have snatched it and had managed to stab Rumlow despite the loose cuffs on the American’s wrists. Immediately, the asset knows not to underestimate the tiny, mysterious American.

 “Будет,” the asset commands calmly, cocking his pistol and approaching the scene at a stroll. Rumlow, understanding the language and recognizing the voice, does as he is instructed and stills, though his knee is still planted in the outsider’s back. Rumlow’s thick hands hold the blond by his hair and his blood smeared wrists. The American man is spitting and struggling still, and the asset gets the impression that he would be doing so even if he could understand the language. Bleeding form an oozing slit in his side, Rumlow grins from ear to ear at the asset. It is the kind of expression that the asset has seen make many great men uneasy, but the asset is not affected by such things.

“Hey there, buddy!” Rumlow called with an oily expression, speaking in English for what the asset assumes is the American’s benefit. The asset doesn’t answer Rumlow. He rarely does, because it only encourages the man. Rumlow already pesters the asset enough, following him around and trying to make friends. Friends are not things the asset is capable of having, let alone a thing he is permitted to have. He permits Rumlow, because Rumlow is sometimes necessary, and the higher-ups favor him.

 “Thought I’d bring you a special treat! Check it out, this one’s still got some spark in him,” Rumlow continued, grinding his knee into the American’s back to draw out more squirming and furious hisses, as if showing off a prized farm animal to the asset, who he supposes would be the judge in this situation. A trivial thought. The asset wasn’t impressed with any part of this affair.

 “Little fucker’s been snooping around in our business for way too long... Even had to launch a little strike to bring him down. Civilian, easy as pie, but bites and kicks like a bitch,” Rumlow lamented, sick grin returning when the American practically roared and probably scraped his skin against the wall in his useless struggles. The asset was still waiting for a real explanation, but he was used to Rumlow’s superfluous showing off and rambling. The man was still steadily bleeding, but the asset resisted the urge to point this observation out. Rumlow certainly knew, and the asset wouldn’t mind if he bled out.

 “Anyway,” Rumlow finally continued after watching his catch squirm. “Almost kept him to myself, but then I thought... Why the hell not. Let the little bastard freeze his balls off for a few weeks on the trip over, and then toss him to you. I know how lonely you get when I’m not here... And when you get tired of him, you can do what it is that you do best and slit his throat... Or hand him back over to me...” he added with a salacious grin that made the asset sneer under the safety of his mask. What Rumlow was proposing was ridiculous and incorrect. The asset had no desire for human contact, sexual or otherwise, and he certainly wasn't lonely or bored. But the asset didn’t care enough to argue. It would be showing too much emotion. An opinion. That wasn’t his job.

With little hint as to what he was doing, Rumlow suddenly leaned away from the tiny American and practically flung the man the asset’s way. Stumbling and flinching away with wide eyes as he finally got a glimpse of the asset, the American gasped and did his best not to fall to the gritty floor. The asset knew how his image affected others, and was entirely unsurprised by the American's reaction. Armed to the teeth and dressed in combat armor black enough to make a raven jealous, with ragged, overlong hair and no expression... Men usually screamed. 

“Watch out... This one’s clever,” Rumlow called, hovering for a moment or two before scooping up his bloody knife and pressing a panel to open a hatch that would lead him to a new hall, presumably to get his wound stitched. At least the irritating agent was out of the way, one less variable in the asset’s messy equation. Even as the asset had watched Rumlow disappear, he’d had his gun trained on the unsteady American, who seemed to be in shock now that Rumlow had suddenly left. Apparently the man was smart enough not to run, and had enough self preservation not to attempt to attack the asset. The American’s life would be over in a flash, and the asset would go back to what he had been doing before the noisy interruption.

This American wasn’t the first man Rumlow had brought back to the base, but this was the first one that had been gifted personally to the asset. There was always one. Weak, small, defeated. Sometimes, if they could find one, Rumlow or someone else managed to snag a girl. Those were usually more difficult. The asset knew these prisoners were almost always an unfortunate party who had attempted to do business with HYDRA, and then never followed through on their promises. Nearly half of HYDRA’s business deals went bad, because none of them were legitimate. And so, there was always someone in the aftermath to whisk away and torture for their mistakes. The men passed these captives around like toys, filthy wolves giving into their most carnal desires. The asset detested this baseness he was surrounded by, but he permitted it. It kept the crude agents happy and in line for the most part, having some form of entertainment and pleasure outside of their training. Human party favors made the asset's job easier.

However, occasionally these powerless captives managed to cause trouble. Men would fight over who’s turn it was, might spend an extra hour in their barracks rather than going to their shift in order to get more time with the latest toy. When the jealousy and competition for time with the captives became too great, the asset stepped in to perform his duty. The captives were the only people on the base he ever terminated with a bullet. It was the kindest way he could think of to give them their release. A single shot to the head. And the asset never missed. None of the agents ever dared to complain about the termination of their latest toy, knowing that if they opened their mouths to protest, the asset would be killing them next. It was enough of a privilege that they were allowed to keep a slave for even a short time.

Now, it would be this blond American’s turn, before he could be passed around and abused any further. This man had been gifted to him, but the asset had no need of another man in his quarters. The kindest way to end this one’s suffering would be to shoot him now. Rumlow could not complain that the asset had ended the fun too soon, because he had no claim over this man now, and it seemed the ultimate goal was this American's death anyway. Logic allowed that outsider was the asset’s to do with as he pleased. It wasn’t a fair way for this man to end his life, but the asset had never claimed to be fair, or even good. He didn’t care what the man had done to cross HYDRA, if he deserved to be here, or if he deserved to die. Killing this captive now would mean another bloody ghost haunting the asset’s dreams, but it was the simplest option and it would let him get on with his night.

Before pulling the trigger, the asset took the liberty to stare for a long moment, taking the American in with cold, gray eyes and a blank face beneath the mask. The American was young and skinny, no older than the asset himself. His wide eyes were a startling blue, and fresh blood scabbed at the man’s angular cheek bones. The clothing he wore fit him poorly, and appeared to be of Russian make. Probably Rumlow’s. It looked like they had barely fed the man, and had only given him warmer clothes so he wouldn’t die on the cold journey over. A waste. When the asset’s gaze traveled up to the man’s face again, preparing to fire the gun and put this American out of his misery, the expression on the blond’s face shocked the asset into a dead stillness.

The man wasn’t frightened. He had clearly been startled and panicked when Rumlow first shoved him toward the asset, but now, the man stood at what looked laughably similar to a parade stance, chin raised defiantly and eyes blazing while both hands remained locked behind his back. No one looked at the asset like that. Not once, in his countless years under HYDRA. No one. This was the first. It was such a foreign sensation to behold, to witness such bravery and insane stupidity. In response, something inside the asset was shaken loose. The realization of this immediately made the asset grimace and snap out of his daze, finger sliding onto the trigger of his gun.

But even then... The man looked unmoved. Unafraid of his fate, and staring it dead in the face. Another first. The asset quivered with silent rage, and lowered his gun. Another first.

Silence prevailed. The asset stared. The American stared right back. Finally, when the asset could summon the right words, he decided to speak.

“Come,” was all he offered, the English words rusty and flat on his tongue. The tone left no room for argument, and with a gesture of the gun, the asset signaled the American to walk. Shockingly, the man grit his teeth, and went. Feeling ungrounded and uncertain for what felt like the first time in his entire life, the asset stalked silently behind the American captive, counting the cadence of the man’s echoey footsteps. The man was tired but tense, and the asset realized he was still fighting. The asset was going to have to find a very secure room to lock this man in, until he could knock some sense into himself and remember how to pull the trigger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hoped you liked this experiment of sorts. Please let me know what you think, I'd love feedback and maybe even a little encouragement to continue.
> 
> Russian translation:  
> Будет= a command to stop
> 
> Update, 23 March 2016: I've decided to write the next chapter and it should be up soon. Thanks for the comments and kudos!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Winter Soldier struggles, and Steve is rash.

The meager south wing of the base is where the asset has made his home. The soldiers have no reason to enter, with everything they need existing in the three other wings of the structure. Built like greek cross with a labyrinth of tunnels connecting each arm to the other and a massive hub at the middle, the south wing is the most empty, and therefore the most appealing to the asset. The less men crawling about, the easier it is to remain hidden, and therefore keep up his reputation. The asset knows he must bring the American there.

The man is still walking stiffly, as if he expects to be shoved or hit at any second, and for some reason this only serves to irritate the asset. The man shouldn’t still be willing to fight, locked away hundreds of feet underground with the world’s most efficient killing machine at his back. The fool should have given up. He should have been afraid. It would have made the asset’s job so much easier. More frustrated with himself and his lack of functionality than the American’s bravado, the asset finally leads the him to an abandoned room only a short walk away from his own.

There is an old, lumpy mattress inside and a yellowed toilet, but nothing else. The walls are cold and solid, and the asset knows they could not be penetrated, even if the man had a weapon or the use of his hands. It is practically a palace compared to the other rooms the asset might have chosen to lock the man in, considering the state of disrepair this end of the base is in. The asset has no reason to keep it in anything but the deteriorating state it is in now. This is his first visitor, and not one he plans to keep for long.

“Get in,” the asset coldly instructs the American, keeping his distance from both the skinny man and the open doorway. The gun is still pointed at the stranger, yet for a moment it looks as if the man is considering arguing with the asset and refusing to move. Maybe if the man manages to anger the asset, it will be easier to shoot him. The asset is almost hoping for it. However, after a moment of defiant staring through the flop of blond hair over his eyes, the man takes a few slow steps forward into the barren room. The asset isn’t sure if he is disappointed or relieved.

Without another word, the asset hits a button on the door and watches as it swings closed and eclipses the American from view. He takes a moment to stand in the hallway before the door, staring blankly at it and quietly wondering what has happened to him. The asset has always had a foolish weakness for the helpless, hopeless captives who ended up at the base, but has never been like this. Inefficient. Useless to obey his own will. This is pushing the limits of what is expected of the asset. It is not quite a breach in his programming, but it is frighteningly close.

As the asset turns and stalks silently down the hall to retire to his own rooms, he resigns himself to keep tabs on this dangerous trend. If it persists, he will have to submit himself for reconditioning. The word alone makes the asset cringe slightly with imagined pain, but the sense of duty overwhelms the instinctual aversion to it. The asset knows it is the frequent reconditioning that keeps him operating at his best.

As he enters the space he has made his own, stark and frozen like the rest of the base but furnished with racks of weapons and items confiscated from the agents here, the asset decides to subject himself to a shower. There is a room connected to the space where the asset sleeps that holds a shower stall, a sink, and toilet that aren’t as rusted out as most of the others in this wing. There’s even a fragment of a mirror left behind from when the base had seen better days. Some of HYDRA’s visiting officials once bunked in the south wing. Nowadays, they have no more visitors. The asset likes it this way.

The temperature gauge on the asset’s shower is broken, and the water always comes out scaldingly hot. The asset cannot be bothered to fix it. As he undresses and steps into the spray, the asset is shocked by the heat and contact as he always is, but never makes a single noise of complaint. He is used to pain and shock now, and holds still as the water pelts the back of his head and his shoulders before running down the rest of his body. The lazy, hissing pattern of water over his skin is familiar by now, and therefore welcome. As he stands, some of the water sluices through the asset’s metal arm, mingling with accumulated sweat and dust to work and wash it out. 

The asset doesn’t remember how he got his arm, but somewhere deep in his gut understands that he has had it for a long, long time. Since before he came to live on this base, it has been a part of him. The only reason the asset knows he had an existence before the base is because the whispers tell him so. Hushed, wavering tones in the back of the asset’s head like to occasionally suggest to the asset he has done many things before, like being frozen between reconditionings. The asset could be ancient, or under thirty. It doesn’t matter to him, as long as he can continue to do his job. The metal arm seems to whir in agreement.

Once the asset is rid of filth and scrubbed down until his skin his pink from friction as well as heat, he steps out and robotically dries himself off before the water on his skin can set too much of a chill into his muscles. With the American forgotten for now and his physical needs taken care of, the asset knows it is time to retire himself for a few hours of sleep. He will reevaluate in the morning, and carefully plan out what he knows must happen next, no matter how much the fragmented whispers claw at his mind to try and distract him from his mission.

 

The moment the door closed and locked him in his new cell, Steve’s legs buckled at the knees, sending him to the ground hard and landing him flat on his ass. The adrenaline and sheer stress were beginning to catch up to him, and suddenly Steve just wanted to cry or kick someone in the face. Maybe even both, if he could manage it.

The past few days had been a blur of horror, and Steve could hardly even remember how many days it had been since that asshole Brock Rumlow had fucking kidnapped him and brought him to Russia. Steve had been drugged for most of the journey, and he supposed it was something of a blessing. The way Brock and the other agents who’d nabbed him looked at Steve, touched him when he couldn’t fight back... Steve felt viciously nauseous just thinking about it, and scrambled over to the toilet in one corner of the room before he could loose the little food left in his stomach.

He didn’t deserve to be here, wherever here was. Back in the States, Steve had gone snooping around a little too close to home for HYDRA, and apparently they didn’t like the idea of being exposed or prodded at, even by a nobody like Steve Rogers. When he'd been found out, Rumlow seemed to take Steve’s curiosity personally, and it had earned Steve the man’s special attention for reasons Steve couldn’t fathom. After he'd been nabbed kicking and screaming, all Brock did was taunt and abuse Steve for the entire trip over as he was carted around in handcuffs on a chain, like a fucking puppy. It was the most demeaning experience of Steve’s life, and being surrounded by heavily armed HYDRA agents unafraid to kick the shit out of him left Steve utterly helpless. They jeered at him constantly, promising ugly things and alluding to what would happen to him once he arrived. It wasn't easy to shut them out.

Steve had already suffered his torture, and he had thought the much talked about man in the mask would finally be his death. When they finally came face to face after Brock had gotten Steve pinned to a wall, Steve had glared at the icy wall of a man, looked him in the eye and dared him to fire the bullet. But the shot didn’t come. It was almost a disappointment. Sick and angry, Steve supposed that there was still more torture to come, if he could trust the looks of things.

The masked man must have been the Winter Soldier Rumlow and his men talked about. For days the agents couldn’t shut up with their ghost stories about the man, and what they guessed he’d do to Steve once they handed him over. A nice piece of meat tossed to a starving dog. Right. Rather than dwell on the idea, Steve had chosen to believe that the Winter Soldier was a myth. When he’d spat and told Rumlow as much, the man had only laughed. But now that Steve had seen the legend of a man with his own eyes, he knew there was no denying the fact that the Winter Soldier existed. However, the man hadn’t immediately grabbed Steve and ripped into him like the agents had led Steve to believe he would do. The Winter Soldier hadn’t even shot him.

But hell, it had looked like the man had wanted to. For a few minutes Steve was convinced his life was to end in an the empty hall of a repurposed base from the fucking Cold War, yet here he was. He’d been given a second chance to live, and under no circumstances was Steve going to waste it. All he wanted was to get out of here, because waiting around to die wasn’t an option for Steve. If he could spit in HYDRA’s face on his way out, that was even better, stories about the scary Winter Soldier be damned. He didn't want to wait around and find out if the Winter Soldier would be coming to torture him after all. Steve always been clever and unafraid to take chances, and now he had nothing to lose, and he did love a good fight, even if he was certain to fail. In that cold, dark room beside a creaky toilet, Steve leaned against the unforgiving wall and began to plan.

 

When morning came, Steve woke with a start and ended up scraping his cheek against the wall he’d fallen against, cursing when the old scab began to bleed again. He hadn’t planned on falling asleep, and panicked for a moment when he realized what had happened. Unfortunately, planning hadn’t gotten Steve very far, but now he needed to make up for lost time and was going to have to wing it in the time he had left. He didn't know when the masked soldier would return, and decided he would have to act fast.

Without a paperclip or any other sort of thin scrap of metal, Steve was going to have to try and twist out of his handcuffs. He didn't want to be caught in the same vulnerable state when it was time to face his captor. As often as Steve had cursed his fragile frame in the past, he wasn’t so upset about it now when it only made scraping his hands through the restraints easier. It took him a good few minutes, quite a bit of blood, and a bout of swearing that his mother would have cuffed his head for, but finally, blessedly, one hand was free. It was all Steve needed.

Thanks to an overabundance of spy movies and maybe some crazy spy friends at home, Steve had been taught what to do if he was ever taken somewhere against his will. The thought made him miss Natasha and Sam, but there was no time for that now.  
One of the reasons Steve hadn’t resisted the masked man as he was lead to the cell was because he was too busy memorizing the turns they’d taken to get here. Steve was fairly confident that he could at least get himself close to the entrance Rumlow had brought him through. Escaping now was the best chance he had, even if barren tundra awaited him outside. Steve couldn't stand to be here any longer, alone and frozen with the promise of impending hell at the hands of a ghost. Who knew what waited for him if he stayed and tried to bide his time. It was now or never.

When the door to his room opened, Steve was not prepared. Steve panicked.

 

It is morning by the time the asset realizes he will have to face the American man again. The stranger is small and sickly, and the asset knows he will not last long in the cold, alone and unfed. The asset reasons that if he cannot kill the man quickly to end his pain, then he cannot allow him to slowly starve and suffer until he wastes away either. It is a fate perhaps worse than being taken up as a pet by the men on base. This knowledge forces the asset into an impasse.

Alone in his rooms, he eventually convinces himself to procure a small canteen of water for the American, feeling frustrated but unable to propose a better option than the one he has reluctantly chosen. The asset arms himself as he usually does, but he knows as soon as he stands outside of the American’s room that he will not be able to shoot the man today, or perhaps any time soon. The stranger with bird bones and golden hair will not be broken easily, and once again the asset finds himself wishing he had just been delivered broken. Then the asset would have shot him, and would not be wasting precious time keeping this man alive, or struggling mentally with the potential loss of a perfectly good, mostly innocent life.

As the asset keys in the code for the door, he is already irritated and wondering if Agent Rumlow would punish him for letting the American go free to be swept up by another agent. The asset has little time to wonder about these things, because before the door is open even wide enough for the asset to step through, the American is bursting through the seam past the asset and sprinting down the hall in a smudge of pale skin and bloody clothes. The asset is stunned by the unpredictable turn of events and curses quietly to himself. He could have grabbed the stranger and stopped him from getting past, but the asset hadn’t cared enough about whether or not the man stayed or fled to react quickly enough. It had been a mistake to let his guard down, but not an important one.

Perhaps Rumlow would not be upset that the asset was not using his “gift” if the asset explained that it had escaped, and was too busy doing his job to maintain a slave anyway. In this, it seemed the asset’s decision about the newcomer had been made for him, and he felt some measure of relief. The American would not starve to death on his own because some agent would find and take him, and the asset would not have to care for him or shoot him before he was broken. Pleased with the turn of events, the asset tossed the canteen of water into now empty room and turned to leave without closing the door.

With the issue of the American out of his hands, the asset could continue with his mission. Though his patrols were never scheduled, the asset had taken it upon himself to spend most of his time out on the base, simply existing and observing so that when anything happened, the asset would know about it and therefore would be able to handle it successfully. As long as Steve didn’t make any trouble trying to leave the base itself or sabotage any of HYDRA’s operations, the asset wouldn’t have to deal with him again until it was truly time for the frail man to die.

With the distraction of the American gone, the asset is glad for the freedom to patrol, and makes the decision to visit the western wing, which is usually full of agents at the end of their shifts during this hour. Perhaps a lazy agent will step out of line, and the asset will have an excuse to shoot someone just to prove to himself that he still can. Then he will be able to forget about the American.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for sticking with me through my craziness. Hope you liked it.  
> Any criticism is welcome, and thank you so much to those who commented, bookmarked, or gave kudos the last time. It means a lot!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A mind is made up, and a compromise is crafted.

To say Steve had panicked would be a massive understatement. He’d blown through that door so fast he didn’t even have time to register the Winter Soldier until he was already yards down the hall, sprinting blindly and hoping he was making the correct split second decisions on turns. The achingly cold, sharp tunnels loomed before him like endless open throats, with flickering lights that threatened to swallow Steve in the darkness as he ran. Doorways began to blur together in his head, and before long Steve knew he’d lost track of himself.

Fear settled like a stone in his stomach and forced him to accept the need to stop moving, before he made things worse. More furious with himself than anything else, Steve slowed to an eventual halt to slump against a wall and suck in ragged breaths until his vision ceased to swim. Steve had never been fit, but sitting idle for weeks in HYDRA’s arms had done his rail thin body no favors. The sudden burst of exercise had called for a reappearance of his asthma, which always loved to make itself an issue at the worst possible times.

Cursing through the wheezes, Steve dragged himself into the first narrow slit of a hallway he could find. It looked more like a back alley in Brooklyn than a safe place to recover, but Steve had little choice. As he caught his breath and rested, Steve determinedly promised himself he would not be dragged back to his room. He hadn’t given up on the escape yet, bless his stubborn, foolhardy soul. The man in the mask was his enemy and captor, and the image of him in Steve’s mind was slowly becoming the new source of Steve’s hatred and fury.

After what felt like hours had passed, Steve’s breathing had gone from ragged to normal to abnormally soft in his attempts to remain hidden. Before panic over the reality of what he’d done could set in, Steve decided he couldn’t stay put any longer. The Winter Soldier would be after him now, and had probably alerted Rumlow if not the rest of the base to his escape. The longer he waited, the more likely it was that he would be caught. His largest issue now was that he had no idea where he’d ended up. Bitterly, Steve could accept that he was lost. It was what needed to happen next that had him reeling.

Steve was a good planner, able to pick apart a situation and weigh his options when given the time. Right now it was painfully obvious how out of his depth he was, and he knew it was imperative that he cut down on the rash decisions and swallow his panic. The opportunity to be truly alone for the first time in weeks did wonders for Steve’s head, and he soon got himself on the right mental track. Steve was no secret agent, but he knew how to be quiet and small. He hated it, but he could do it. Since he was already lost, there would be no harm in creeping about in the tunnels until he found some sort of familiar door, or an obvious path to a way out. Moving would increase his chances of being spotted, but if he didn’t move he would get no closer to his goal and probably found anyway. There was nothing to lose.

With shaking hands that rattled the damn cuff still locked around one bloody wrist, Steve rose and pressed his back to the wall before leaning his head out of the little alley to peek into the hall. Empty. Silent. Daunting. He needed to move. Holding the dangling end of the cuff so it made less noise, Steve stole into the hall and tried to be silent with the sound of his own blood roaring in his ears. He managed to make it to the intersection of another wide hall and swallowed thickly before choosing to take a turn. A left one. If Steve only took left turns, maybe he could retrace his steps when or if he chose to. The only downside to Steve’s plan was, that after several left turns in a row, he eventually realized he’d gone in a circle. The information brought the little blond to a stop with a flurry of whispered curses and stinging frustration. In an attempt to think positively, Steve reasoned that at least he had managed to recognize where he was, and that he had been there before. And he still hadn’t run into anybody, legendary soldiers or otherwise.

The cold door Steve was leaning on felt heavy and solid, and on an impulse, Steve tried the handle. Locked. It wasn’t a surprise, but now Steve could’t help but try the door across the hall. Locked again. Slowly, Steve’s features drew into a determined frown. Not all of the doors had keypads like the one he had been locked behind by the Winter Soldier. Surely at least one room in this hellhole had to be unguarded. Maybe an innocuous closet, or another unused hall. Anywhere that might give Steve a hint to the way out, or maybe a weapon to help him on his way. Steve made his way around the circle again, and had no luck with any of the doors. Frustrated but not surprised, Steve leaned against a wall and grimly rubbed the heels of his palms against his eyelids.

Being out in the open and fumbling blindly for any sort of luck felt like being in limbo. Half of a day was likely gone, and nothing had changed. Steve was no closer to finding the way out or being caught than he had been when he first darted out of his cell. He was slowly becoming terrified that the Winter Soldier was only biding his time before coming for him. Why he hadn’t been pursued immediately, Steve couldn’t begin to fathom. Maybe he just wasn’t considered big enough of a threat? That would be a mistake. Steve might not have been strong or combat trained like Rumlow or his team, but he was _angry_. Steve had been hell bent on burning HYDRA to the ground before he was taken, and now his incentive had only increased. The bad news for HYDRA was, they had dropped Steve right in the heart of their operation. It would have been smarter for them to just kill him back in America, or deliver him to a Winter Soldier who was actually competent. Not that Steve was complaining about the second chances.

Maybe... Just maybe, if Steve could manage it... He could find a way to bring HYDRA crashing to the ground on his way out. And if there really was no way out, then maybe Steve could accept his fate with the idea that he was here on a sort of suicide mission. Slowly, Steve realized that he had been handed a truly spectacular opportunity. To his knowledge, no one had ever infiltrated HYDRA before. This was a spectacular chance. If Steve could survive, maybe he could analyze how the organization worked, find out exactly what made it tick. If he couldn’t get out to share the information with the rest of the world, then maybe he could find some way to vastly cripple HYDRA and bring it down.

And suddenly Steve’s priorities had shifted. He had made up his mind not to give up on looking for an out, but until he found one, Steve would also be looking for a place to hide. If he found something habitable, he would begin to make it his temporary home. Whatever mess he had ended up in, Steve was going to make the absolute best of it. It was the most hopeless he had ever been, and if life had taught Steve anything, it was that great things always came out of trials, if you stuck through to the end. A bitter snort of a laugh escaped him and echoed through the halls. For any sort of great thing now, Steve was going to need a miracle.

 

It had been exactly two days and three hours since the asset had lost sight of the stranger. His time has been relatively uneventful, filled with the standard patrols and appointments. The asset knows that the American has stowed himself away in one of the rooms in the base’s south wing, just down the hall from where the asset had meant to originally keep him. The asset was privately amazed by the stranger’s choices. The little man was likely freezing and starving, but he had scraped together enough brain cells to keep away from the more populated areas, and the men. It is exactly what the asset had hoped would not happen. Instead of the stranger being taken off of his hands, the man now skulked around in corners and remained stubbornly unkept, by the asset or agents or otherwise. It got under the asset’s skin.

The asset was used to living completely alone, with the space of an entire wing to call his own domain. Now the American shuffled around and pawed at things, and he was a constant itch at the back of the asset’s mind. The one he couldn’t kill. The one that wouldn’t just go away like the rest of them. Close. Taunting. The asset wanted the stranger gone, or locked away and at least controlled. Today, he decided, it had gone on long enough. The asset would confront the American and force him out into the hands of the agents, if all went according to plan. If things went awry, then the asset had decided that taking the man back to the empty room, and executing him were both acceptable alternatives. Anything but letting the man run loose, like a starving rat.

With a gun drawn mostly for show, the asset made his way to where the American was located, motions silent as he stalked his target. After furtive observation these past few days, the asset had gathered intel on the American. The little man had somehow managed to mangle the rusted lock on an old broom closet, and had holed himself up inside with a few mysterious scraps of blankets and cleaning cloths. The asset knew the stranger hadn’t eaten in days, and it was clear by the way he slept, limp and wary in the corner, that he was not doing well. While the asset didn’t seem capable of shooting the American, he’d never wanted the man to die a slow death from starvation and cold either. It just wouldn’t be right, some whisper in the back of his skull supplied.

Still vaguely irritated, despite any foolish sympathy, the asset watched the American for only a few more breaths before slamming the butt of his gun on the open closet door to wake the man in his little nest. Immediately, the American shot awake and only had to glimpse the asset before he was on his feet in a panic, back pressed to the cramped room’s corner. The asset watched the entire display, and didn’t even flinch.

“You,” he began gruffly, disliking the way that the accented English felt on his tongue. “It is time for you to go. Leave and find a keeper, or come back to the room where you belong,” the asset growled slowly, blocking the doorway this time with a purpose. He wouldn't let the stranger dart past this time. The asset couldn't be fooled twice. Before him, the American’s glare was like poison. Clearly the man recovered his wits quickly, despite how unwell he appeared. After a few panicked breaths, the man spoke.

“I am not going back to them,” the American spat, chin jutted out in defiance despite the terrified shaking the asset spotted in his spidery hands. The stranger just did not know how to quit. If the asset wasn’t so fed up with the situation and the man who was disrupting the order of his life, he might have felt admiration.

“I do not care to hear why. You will come now, or you will go and stay away from here,” the asset insisted firmly, gun pointed in the general direction of the American’s shoulder. For everything that the asset knew about the headstrong American, it was an absolute shock to see the brave fury shift and melt off of the little man’s face, only to be replaced by hot tears as the asset’s words sunk in. The asset blinked. The American was breaking. Losing his wits. The asset clicked the safety off of his gun, brains supplying that maybe it would be alright to shoot him now, when he was so miserable and probably already dying.

“No!” the American immediately shouted, wide watery eyes darting up to meet his own. The asset returned the pleading look with a glare. Apparently the American’s fight wasn’t burnt out yet. The asset’s finger was frozen once more. “No, don’t... don’t you dare shoot me. I’ve had enough of this,” the American hissed, shoulders straightening. “I hate this. I hate you. But I am not going back to them,” he shouted shakily, and the asset distantly decided that the nerves of everything were likely getting to the American now, causing him to act out even more recklessly than he had before.

“You were foolish to run away,” the asset found himself supplying, voice quiet but no more inviting than a bed of nails. The American fixed him with a cold glare for his efforts. The asset paid it no mind. “Come. It is only a short walk. Stay put. Stay quiet. They will have no reason to come for you, if they believe you are dead... Or at my disposal,” the asset explained, a bitter twist to his lips under the mask. He did not know why he was telling the American this. Coaxing him. It was not part of the programming. Felt older. Like instinct. It was a compromise. A gift the asset hadn’t thought himself capable of giving. But the American had already proven himself to be an exception to everything the asset thought he knew. He was being too kind to the man who had mistakenly chosen him as the lesser of two evils.

The American was still shaking, but decidedly more calm, and almost quiet as he seemed to consider the asset’s words. The asset knew that this did not mean the man would come easily, but maybe no one would have to be shoved around this time. “Behave. And I will not touch you,” he ordered, the closest thing to a peace offering as the American would receive. The little man had the audacity to roll his eyes, but the asset stepped out of the closet doorway and gestured with the gun for the American to follow. When he did follow, it was almost a shock, though the asset’s face remained perfectly blank. The American was cooperative as they walked down the hall, but the asset was wise enough to know that it was not because the man’s spirit was broken. The American had cried and lost his composure, but there was still a stubborn light left in his eyes. The man was tired and starving, and clearly very human. It was reasonable to expect such a collapse. The asset couldn’t remember ever feeling the same. Feeling human. 

When the American finally entered the room he’d fled days ago, the asset regarded him quietly and wondered if now the man required praise for following orders. Rather than risk making a mistake, the asset simply tipped his head in a minute nod, and holstered his gun. “There is water on the bed," the asset announced, remembering the canteen he'd tossed in days ago after the American had fled. "Do not cause me any more trouble,” the asset added grimly, watching as the American rolled his eyes once more. Frustrated, the asset simply closed the cell door in the American's face. For all of the quiet compliance, the asset knew his caged problem had not been subdued, nor had he truly been taken care of. Already, the man was too much trouble, running away only to be caught again. A fruitless, passionate effort that had only left the little man burnt out. It was foolish, and it made the asset feel tired.

As the asset stood outside of the cell, irritably contemplating what his next moves regarding the American should be, he was startled to suddenly hear a pounding knock on the other side of the door. Suspicion immediately welled up within the asset, and his features drew themselves into a harsh mask. He would not be played by the man he was already out of line in protecting. Still, the asset cracked open the door and stood unmoving before it.

Wide blue eyes regarded him through the narrow gap, now watery again and clearly surprised to actually see the asset. When the American spoke, his voice was small. So small, smaller than the asset had ever heard it. It stirred something long broken in his chest.

“When will you be back?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all for reading! I'm somewhat flexible on this story, so if anyone has any suggestions for future chapters I'd love to consider them. I plan on updating soon, so stay tuned!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unstoppable force meets a (mostly) immovable object

Steve has been recovering, if you could call it that, in his bare little room for what feels like months. In reality, it has only been a few days. The only reason Steve has any idea about the true passage of time is because the Winter Soldier has been coming around to feed him in patterns. Three meals, lights out. Lights on, three meals, lights out, repeat. As best as Steve can figure, the odd assortments of foods that get dropped off are supposed to be breakfast, lunch and dinner. Everything has been relatively, suspiciously normal. The door barely opens enough for the Winter Soldier to slide in a tray before it’s closing again, and by the time Steve notices, the door is closing again.

The room is quiet. The walls are still a bland grey, and the toilet is still bolted solidly into the heat-sucking floor, but Steve has discovered that the bed squeaks like a rusty door if he moves a certain way. The frame too, is bolted to the floor. A few times, Steve has used the food trays piling up as entertainment, stacking them like a particularly shabby, small house of cards. There is absolutely nothing to do but sit and dwell in misery, and attempt to be grateful for the relative peace. Steve tried not to think about the friends and family he’d left behind, who likely missed him and were worried sick about where he’d gone. Remembering home only made Steve more miserable, so he didn’t do it often. When it’s manageable, Steve sleeps. Even though it’s impossible to feel comfortable or relaxed buried in a HYDRA base and kept captive by a mysterious, clearly dangerous man, Steve has gotten the sense now that the Winter Soldier doesn’t actually plan on killing him. Even so, the lack of any interaction whatsoever has left Steve frustrated and bored. 

He’d very much like to have a word with his captor, especially since the last time he’d actually seen the man, he’d asked a question and had only gotten the door slammed in his face without so much as a shrug of reply from the Winter Soldier. Now the man only popped his hands in past the door before he was gone again, and that didn’t count as really seeing him. For hours, Steve had been pissed about it. Hell, he was still mad, but slowly he’d been realizing there was nothing he could do. Everything felt raw, and the loneliness was suffocating. The Winter Soldier was coming back, but not in any way that had substance. 

So, cold and alone, with nothing but time to think and stew, Steve naturally worked himself into an idea. He hadn’t forgotten his private vows to be as much of a pain in the ass to HYDRA as possible, but he was doing fuckall here alone in this tiny concrete box. Something needed to change. Steve needed a handhold. He refused to rot here alone, and let his capture and eventual death mean nothing. Steve needed attention. He’d always been good at getting it, whether or not it was good for him in the end.

The next time the Winter Soldier was about due to drop off a meal, Steve summoned up the courage to plunk himself down right in front of the door. This way, the Winter Soldier wouldn’t be able to shove the door open and slide the food in without Steve noticing. He’d hit Steve, and it’d likely slow him down enough to maybe throw him off, or at least give Steve some warning. Either would be fantastic, if he could manage it. Steve had plans. 

Like clockwork, the Winter Soldier eventually came by. He knew, because the metal door swung open and whacked him in the back of the head. Steve immediately pressed his hands to the back of his head with a hiss of pain, and shuffled to allow the door to open more as he knelt right at the opening. The Winer Soldier wouldn’t be able to slide the food in because Steve was in the way. He’d have to wait, or hand it to him. Heart racing in his fragile chest, Steve drew his gaze up the gap in the door, past layers of leather and canvas to lock eyes with the soldier. For a breathless second, everything was still, and then Steve could practically feel a shift in the air when the Winter Soldier’s eyes changed. Before the soldier could act and decide Steve was a threat rather than just a pesky prisoner, Steve held up his hands in the universal gesture for surrender and tried for a grin. 

He was sure he looked more terrified and manic than reassuring or approachable, but it would have to be enough. “Hey,” Steve called simply, voice scratchy with disuse. He pressed on before he could lose his nerve. “I, uh... I’m Steve. You wouldn’t happen to have any pencils around here, would you? So I can draw? Gets pretty boring in here, pal... Hey, you got a name?” Steve continued, rambling so he wouldn’t have to feel his heart climbing into his throat as the Winter Soldier only stared him down. It was the blankness in the man’s expression that terrified Steve, and made him realize that maybe he wasn’t looking at a man at all. The person before him was a cold, heartless monster. He had to be, to act like this, and work for HYDRA. 

Even though the Winter Soldier turned Steve’s blood to ice, he knew he had to push on. The emotionless soldier was his singular hope for getting anywhere at all. Somehow, he’d have to convince the Winter Soldier that he was worth his time. When the silence only stretched on, and the Winter Soldier barely moved, Steve was beginning to think his gamble on pleasantries was a waste of time. Then, the soldier tipped his chin in a gesture that was impossible to misread, for as simple as it was. Eager to comply, Steve scrambled to his feet and stepped back to allow the door to swing open further. For a moment, it seemed the Winter Soldier was visibly struggling with something in his own head. However, he seemed to come to a decision soon enough, and jerkily extended the tray of food for Steve to take it, expression now schooled back into a bleak mask. 

Steve could hardly breathe, and as he reached out to accept the tray, he got the distinct impression that he had better move slowly. It was like interacting with a wild animal, one both skittish and dangerous enough to end Steve’s life in the blink of an eye if he misstepped. As soon as Steve’s fingers curled around the edges of the tray, the Winter Soldier’s hands were gone, back to his sides and as far away from Steve as possible. It appeared the soldier was struggling again, waging mental war in his own enigmatic skull, but then his expression was closed off again, and Steve felt he might have missed his chance. 

“You know, asshole, it’s polite to answer someone when they talk to you,” Steve suddenly snapped, fed up with the silent treatment and sparing no thought for self preservation. For the barest fraction of a second, Steve thought he might have almost seen shock flash across the visible features of the Winter Soldier’s face, but the flicker of potential emotion was gone before it could really register in his brain. Cold again, but this time distinctly hostile, even angry in a horrifyingly controlled way, the Winter Soldier clicked his tongue at Steve, and then the door slammed shut between them. Whatever tentative interaction had tied them together, however briefly, had now been abruptly severed. Steve wanted to scream.

 

The asset does not understand the American. The Steve. Deliberately obstructive, demanding attention, and speaking to the asset as if he is a person. One moment almost kind, foolishly trusting enough to assume the asset won’t kill him and naive enough to hope for favors, yet the next spitting and insulting when his desires are not immediately acknowledged. Mercurial. Selfish. Human. Nothing the asset hasn’t seen before. And yet.. It is different. Men turn like beasts upon one another, and only grant favors when it suits them, all alike in their kinship and camaraderie. The asset is not a man like those he polices, and the men are usually wise enough to know this. The American has mistaken the asset for one of them. A low huff of air escapes the asset’s throat in a bark as he turns and walks away from the door. Steve does not know how wrong he is. The asset is a shadow and a ghost, the gaping abyss from which all nightmares spawn. And yet, as he drifts back to his own quarters, his flesh hand twitches and grasps at nothing before curling into a tight fist. With it, comes a distant sense of loneliness, and the sudden doubt that the asset has been performing properly when it comes to the American.

The asset would rather not interact with the little man at all, especially when contact proves as confusing and frustrating as it had just moments ago. However, his predicament is still the same. The asset is bound by some misplaced sense of honor to uphold the agreement he had foolishly offered the American. The man is behaving, more or less, and so the asset must tolerate him and keep him alive. It is a burden and a distraction from his usual duties, but manageable. If the asset’s mind wanders to the small blond’s hesitantly hopeful expression as he patrols the base’s northern border, or he fixates on the fury in the American’s eyes when later obtaining a meal for himself, that is no one’s business but the asset’s own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one is a little shorter than usual. But I've managed to work out the plot for the rest of this story, so if I can control myself, chapters should be a bit more frequent now. Once again, thanks for sticking around! Let me know what you think


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Winter Soldier gets curious, Steve tries, and both of them generally struggle with their personal goals. Nevertheless, progress is made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's in a name

Since the incident with the American, the asset has been avoiding visiting him again. He is already late in delivering Steve’s first meal of the day, yet he despises the idea of interacting with the man. The asset’s mission held no room for distractions, and he still hated the idea that he was stuck tending to a person he hadn’t asked for, but apparently couldn’t get rid of. Maybe the asset was secretly soft, but he was certainly not social. The asset understood that humans got bored, and that social interaction was a literal need for survival. He’d seen HYDRA’s methods of torture, when they deemed mere execution was ill suited for the situation. Solitary confinement was one of their favorite choices for cruel and unusual punishment. Almost everyone who fell onto the organization’s bad side spent a sentence in a black, soundless cell to deteriorate in for days on end. It broke mens’ minds, the asset knew. Made them easier to torture. More willing to give up information. 

For as apathetic as the asset was towards Steve, he didn’t want to deliberately neglect the man either. This had been a constant struggle, ever since their initial meeting, and the asset couldn’t stand it. But, sooner or later, the American would snap if left only to himself. Unfortunately for Steve, the asset could not fulfill the man’s need for interaction, and there certainly wasn’t any other pathetic straggler on base that the asset wanted to take up to give his ward a partner. It was frustrating to the asset, who once again reminded himself that this wasn’t what he wanted, or was meant for, in the first place. Agent Rumlow had mishandled the situation, yet the asset was required to acquiesce. It was a fiasco waiting to unfold into a catastrophe. 

When he finally convinced himself to bring the American his breakfast, the asset was cautious and now knew to expect the trick with the door. Rumlow had been right about Steve being clever, and the asset knew not to underestimate a brilliant mind left to wander. However, when he cracked open the door this time, there was no resistance. Quick as a blink of the eye, the asset slid the food in and was gone again, knowing better than to stick around and test his luck. This pattern continued for the rest of the day, and when dropping off Steve’s last meal on the next day, Steve had been so quiet that the asset took a quick glance into the room to make sure the American hadn’t died. A brief glimpse into the room revealed a startling image to the asset. Sitting on the bed with his legs folded and both arms crossed over his narrow chest was a grim faced Steve, appearing absolutely livid. The man’s enormous blue eyes were unreadable, and the asset didn’t stick around long enough to decipher what thoughts they might hold, too unnerved with the way his heart now pounded in his chest. 

The asset knows his resumed avoidance might be considered cowardly or even neglectful to Steve’s specific needs, but with no false sense of honor or pride, it is not something that weighs on his nearly nonexistent conscience. After the third and fourth day, what does get to the asset, is his own curiosity. There is something wrong with him, he knows, that he is considering willfully spending time in the American’s presence. The asset has nothing to say, and nothing he wishes to hear from Steve, no tactical information is to be gained by presenting himself... And yet. Thoughts of burning blue eyes skirt the asset’s consciousness, a pink mouth twisted in angry disapproval. When the asset had caught the man’s glare, he later realized he’d never seen anything that looked so alive. It mystified him.

And so, nearly a week after Steve had spoken to him, and with no subsequent incidents, the asset has made up his mind to take a risk. Armed with the buffer of the American’s dinner, the asset approached Steve’s door. A few moments of hesitation give the asset time to change his mind, to acknowledge that it isn’t in his programming to possess curiosity, especially about a specific human being, not like this. The asset’s mind wasn’t changed. With a deep breath and his entire body on guard, the asset stepped into the room.

 

Steve is so shocked to see the Winter Soldier enter his cell that for the first time in days, he finds himself speechless. Of course. Right when he finally has the opportunity to speak he’s been hoping for. However, Steve does have enough presence of mind to notice how the Winter Soldier’s stance isn’t quite right, and finds a tension in the man he hadn’t picked up on before. The soldier’s left hand, glinting and silver under a metal glove, still holds Steve’s usual tray of food. Steve hopes this means he’s not here to be killed, if the soldier plans on feeding him. 

“Hey...” Steve ventures with caution, on alert and bracing for a fight. The Winter Soldier has never come into the cell before, and something seems off. It looks like the soldier doesn’t want to be here either, but he’s watching Steve like a flighty animal, refusing to acknowledge the greeting as if he didn’t hear it. 

When the soldier unexpectedly makes a gesture with the food tray, nudging it towards him in the air, Steve’s eyes grow nearly as wide as saucers. It is clear what the man wants, and suddenly Steve doesn’t want to get up from his bed, terrified of what might happen if he does. This is entirely untested territory, and for all of his lonely fuming, now Steve doesn’t know if he wants this after all. 

It is unnerving, how obviously and unabashedly the soldier is studying him, making Steve feel small and vulnerable and definitely annoyed. His temper makes him unwise and foolhardy.

“That for me, big guy? Wanna promise me I’m not gonna get stabbed if I come over there?” he asks testily, and the Winter Soldier’s eyes narrow slightly. 

“I have given you my word... No trouble. I will not hurt you,” he reminded Steve, voice gravelly but rolling in a way that suggests he might have a nice voice if he didn’t spend most of his time silently torturing people in a freezer, or whatever. Steve doesn’t care what the Winter Soldier does as long as he can use him to hurt HYDRA and get out. It reminds him to try and be patient. He needs to make friends, or at least convince the Winter Soldier he’s worth keeping around. 

Sucking in a deep breath, it’s really all Steve can do to take the soldier at his word, so he stands and very slowly makes his way across the room. The Winter Soldier has not moved, barely looks like he’s breathing, so Steve pads closer and takes the tray with gentle, slightly shaky hands. The Winter Soldier drops his own hand like he’s been burned as soon as the tray’s out of his grip, and Steve manages not to flinch. He does take several steps back, until he can set the tray of food down on his bed, never taking his eyes off of the soldier. 

The man’s not leaving, and if Steve’s honest with himself, it’s really starting to freak him out. He thinks he’s starting to understand what people mean when they say to be careful what you wish for. He’s got a golden opportunity in front of him, and no clue what to do with it. The man’s a robot. Steve’s in over his head if he thinks he can manage to make a decent impression on this guy. 

“Uh...” Steve begins again, heart racing unsteadily. “You need something?” he asks, before realizing it might’ve been the wrong thing to say. Steve knows he’s still coming off as snappish, and a question like that might be taken as a dismissal. The Winter Soldier, however, seems unfazed and shakes his head, though the lug doesn’t move an inch. Steve doesn’t believe him for a second, but he’s still confused. Nothing is quite adding up. 

“Well... you gonna stick around, or what? Already told you, I’m bored and lonely. Could use the company, if you quit starin’ at me like I’m some sort of freak,” Steve tries again, toeing the line of flirtatious while also managing to possess a quiet air of “fuck off.” Whatever he’s said must have gotten through to the soldier in some way, because now he’s blinking and his posture is shifting into something more loose, less deer in the headlights, more big cat watching the deer. For a second, the soldier almost looks conflicted, like he’s sad he’s just ordered an ice cream but can’t take in into the movies with him. Before Steve can reconcile that, the Winter Soldier is pivoting on his heel, and then he’s gone. Steve tries not to hate himself when he hears the usual click of the lock behind him. 

 

The next day, Steve is busy sitting on the bed, generally feeling miserable and trying not to think about how he hasn’t had a shower since he got here when the telltale noises of the door’s heavy locks announce the Winter Soldier’s arrival. After all of the talking he did yesterday, Steve’s expecting to see a tray shoved in through the crack in the door again, and holds his breath when the Winter Soldier steps in instead. The man looks just as uncomfortable as he did yesterday, and vaguely pissed off, as always. That part, Steve can at least sort of identify with. 

The soldier’s holding the tray like he had before, and this time Steve gets to his feet without preamble. It’s hard not to glance at the partially open door behind the Winter Soldier, even though Steve knows there’s nothing out there but broom closets and starvation and men who’d probably like to rape him. At least in here, he’s fed and it’s quiet, and he’s left alone. Well. Mostly, until now. Steve would still like to know what’s possessed the soldier to start making these gawking visits, but maybe his presence, for whatever reason, is a good sign. 

“You... want me to come get that?” Steve asks carefully, nodding to the tray in his captor’s hands. The soldier looks tired, unhinged or maybe resigned. It’s probably not a new look on him, considering what Steve knows about his job. Being HYDRA’s sure hard work, he thinks bitterly. But then the soldier is nodding, and Steve manages to swallow his anger before stepping up to gingerly pluck the tray from the man’s hand. He doesn’t know if he likes being forced to approach the Winter Soldier for food. It seems vaguely manipulative, like he’s being trained, yet that’s not the intent he’s getting from the soldier. The man is still as blank as ever, and he doesn’t seem the type. 

There’s something lurking in the Winter Soldier just below the surface, barely filtering in to those unblinking eyes that has Steve wondering about the man. It’s almost as if the soldier is muted, standing before him wrapped in mask after mask while his humanity shifts uneasily below the surface. It makes Steve more uncomfortable than he’s ever felt. Even when the soldier comes back twice that day with food, Steve takes it from the man’s hand and doesn’t manage to make himself speak again.

 

Over the next few days, Steve and the Winter Soldier exchange a few brief words, always at Steve’s prodding, yet he feels like he understands no more about the man than he did the first time they met. It’s frustrating, that Steve can’t decide what to think of the soldier, can’t make him out, can’t make any progress. Every time he comes to drop off a meal, the Winter Soldier sticks around for at least a few minutes. Sometimes he’s completely silent, sometimes Steve can eke an answer out of him, but always, always, he watches Steve, like he’s the one who’s difficult to understand. It’s completely unnerving, and Steve hates it. It makes him feel like he can never be in control of the situation, if he can’t even begin to grasp at what kind of person the Winter Soldier is, what makes him tick. 

It comes when he least expects it, in the middle of the afternoon, when the soldier shows up between his usual meal times, no tray in his hands. He looks wild and grim and uncertain all at the same time, but the flickers of emotion are gone before Steve can really peg them down. It looks like the Winter Soldier is trying to make himself speak, but Steve can only assume with the black mask over the man’s lower face. Finally, after such a long time that Steve barely dared to move, the soldier visibly straightened and jerked his head towards the door. 

“This. I am giving you this,” the man announced stiffly, Russian accent thicker than usual today. It didn’t help things make sense. 

“I don’t understand...” Steve replied weakly, glancing from the door the the soldier and back again. Was the man letting him go? After all of this? What was the point of that? Steve’s answer only seemed to make the Winter Soldier more frustrated. 

“The door. I will leave it open. For you,” he announced slowly, clearly struggling with the words. Absently, Steve wondered why some days language seemed harder for the man than others. “I know... you know. There is nowhere to run. But... sitting in cage. Is not good,” the soldier began again, and Steve’s eyes widened marginally. “If you go out for walk, do not leave south wing. Always come back to room for food and sleep,” the brunet instructed, eyes looking more lively than Steve had ever seen them. It was stunning, and he was feeling very overwhelmed. However, the soldier seemed to be on a roll, and wasn’t about to stop speaking until he was finished. 

“If you are here and someone comes into hall who is not me, close the door. It will lock. Keep you safe,” the soldier added grimly, speaking very slowly now as if to make sure Steve understood. “If you get into trouble... Go snooping in places you should not... I will throw you to the wolves,” he finished, the tone of his voice leaving Steve with no uncertainties about whether or not the soldier was bluffing.  
And then in the blink of an eye, he was gone, evaporated like a ghost. Steve’s cell door was left open behind him. Silence stretched on in an unbearable din, until the shock wore off of Steve and he collapsed onto the bed in a fit of nervous, hysterical laughter, mind completely caught up in the surreality of the moment. 

Whatever kind of man the Winter Soldier is, Steve knows he will not be finding out any time soon. But after something as crazy as that, Steve doesn’t think he can handle calling the man “the Winter Soldier” in his head much longer. The name suits him, and that’s the problem. The soldier is unreadable, but Steve is done being afraid. Maybe he’s tired, maybe he’s going crazy, but he wants to cut himself a goddamned break. Sprawled on the bed and ignoring the terrifying gap in the door for now, Steve settles on Bucky. He doesn’t know where he pulled the name from, but it’s just about the most ridiculous thing he can think of to call a full grown, perfectly deadly Russian cult member. It’s perfect, and Steve grins himself stupid thinking of the soldier by his new name in his head. He’ll explore his new freedom tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, guys! Hope you enjoyed.  
> If I could get some feedback, do you enjoy hearing more from the pov of Steve or Bucky? Sometimes I worry that one or the other is dissatisfying, or that it's boring to get things from the perspective of the Winter Soldier... Let me know! I'd really appreciate it.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve starts to get it, and the Winter Soldier shows off his soft spot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cat and Mouse, but who's who, I wonder?

Nowadays, Steve comes and goes from his room freely. It is an infuriating privilege, because it is almost entirely useless, tactically at least. There are no walls or invisible lines that will zap Steve with electricity if he tries to cross them. There are only the boundaries which he draws for himself. If he was brave enough, Steve _could_ choose to put himself in danger, explore the entire HYDRA facility without anyone breathing down his neck. But he knows that if he leaves the area the Winter Soldier has somehow managed to commandeer as his own, that is so blessedly empty of wandering agents, he will meet trouble. Steve isn’t skilled enough or familiar enough with the base to go where agents patrol and not get caught. It’s the worst kind of torture, to have everything he wants at his fingertips and be held back by his own will. Really, Steve is no more free to explore than he had been when his door remained locked. He has learned nothing about HYDRA, about the soldier, about how to escape. He’s just increased the surface area of his cell.

However, whether the soldier knows it or not, disabling the lock on the door and giving Steve freedom has in another way, changed everything. For a few days, exploring the south wing had made Steve feel fantastic. It had felt like maybe he was getting somewhere, doing something useful. It had done much to increase his morale, but in hindsight had been disappointing. Nevertheless, the shift in the rules had shown Steve something. It had proven to Steve that there was opportunity for more change later. The unlocked door was a small, useless step in itself, but the significance behind it and what it could mean for the future gave Steve a feeling of hope. Maybe eventually, with baby steps, he could earn, beg or barter himself into situations where he would be given more leeway, or even information. The possibilities were endless. If he was patient, Steve could get anything, now that he has a foot in the door. It all just depended on the Winter Soldier.

The Winter Soldier, who Steve has still yet to make any significant progress with. They still see each other at least twice in a day, because every once in a while the soldier will neglect to bring Steve a meal. It’s always frustrating and a little disappointing, but Steve figures the guy’s busy, and that he’s lucky enough to be treated this well in the first place. When they do meet for meals, the soldier is still quiet and skittish, disappears if Steve pushes too far, asks too many questions. In those moments it’s easier to call the man “Bucky” in his head, because it’s frankly ridiculous that such a feared man, respected and used by _HYDRA_ , would run away because Steve asked him about his favorite color.

For as stoic and emotionally unreadable as Bucky is, Steve has found himself growing fond of his visits despite himself. Bucky may he Steve’s captor, an agent of the organization Steve has vowed to destroy, but he’s been such an improvement from Rumlow and his goons that Bucky seems kind in comparison. The soldier has never been unnecessarily cruel, and even though Steve has no idea what Bucky really does during his times away, it’s clear that he’s got a job that isn’t taking care of Steve. Steve hates being here. _Hates_ it. But it’s not as bad as it could be. He knows that. He’s maybe a little grateful. Even if Bucky is also a dick.

Steve is distracted when he wanders back down the hallway towards his room, fingers trailing over now familiar cracks in the rough concrete walls. He had been exploring the dead ends of all the halls, hoping to find some sort of exit, or maybe figure out if Bucky actually lived in the south wing of the base, or if he slept elsewhere, maybe with the other men. Steve hasn’t spotted signs of either yet in all his days of searching, and today failure has made him a little grumpy. Continually reminding himself to be patient is something Steve has learned he must do. He’s in this for the long game, and just has to hope tomorrow will be better.

It’s almost time for dinner now, and Steve hasn’t ever pushed his limits and missed a meal. He doesn’t want to know what the soldier would do, and he needs to keep the man on his good side. No use in biting the hand that feeds him.

To Steve’s surprise, when he arrives to his cell, Bucky is already there, hovering in the doorway and looking shiftier than usual. A little thrill buzzes through him at the sight of the man, negative or positive, he doesn’t know. But automatically, Steve finds himself putting on the most soothing air he can muster, though he doesn’t know why, really. He’s postured and spat at the soldier before for being rude, but maybe it’s the line of Bucky’s shoulders or the tenseness of his arms that irrationally makes Steve want to keep him calm and soothed, if soothing the Winter Soldier is possible. Maybe his meager survival instincts are attempting to kick in.

“Hey!” he calls, sneaking meekly closer once Bucky is within comfortable speaking range. “I’m not late, am I?” Steve asks, suddenly a little ashamed of himself and worried of getting in trouble. He has no doubt the soldier would turn him out on his ear if he stepped out of line and started ignoring the rules. Steve has the distinct feeling that his obedience is the only thing that’s kept him in Bucky’s good graces. He’s lonely, he needs Bucky, and he doesn’t want to go back to Rumlow and his friends. He needs to behave. He knows.

Bucky doesn’t speak as Steve nears, but shakes his head and steps into the room after an uncomfortably long pause, though Steve is getting used to them by now. There’s a tray of the usual food waiting for Steve on his bed, but Bucky is staring at it like he knows it’s about to get up and start dancing. Somewhat nervous, Steve glances at the food and then back to Bucky.

“What...?” he begins uncertainly, continuing to glance at the soldier as he steps over to the tray and looks down. Bucky has his back to the wall, like he wants to melt into the slight shadow there, or maybe pretend he’s a statue. Shaking his head in mild exasperation, Steve decides it’s just one of those weird moods the man gets into, and picks up his fork. Except, today, it’s not a fork. Gripped loosely between Steve’s nimble fingers, is an honest-to-God, yellow coated, wood pencil. With an eraser.

Steve stands frozen and stares at the pencil for what feels like an eternity as the shock overcomes him. It’s a pencil. Sharpened to a soft point at the tip, slightly worn, graphite sparkling dully in his hands. For a moment Steve can hardly comprehend what’s going on, but very slowly it sinks in that Steve has been given a gift. With his mouth open and his mind fumbling, Steve wondered how Bucky could have ever possibly known Steve liked to draw, and then it hit him. All those weeks ago, _forever_ ago, Steve had offhandedly asked the soldier for pencils, to get him to talk. He’d never expected the man to actually remember the request, let alone oblige him.

Before he knows it, Steve is sniffling and his vision has blurred slightly at the edges. He suddenly, inexplicably feels ripped open and turned on his head. He’s been given a _gift_. By the _Winter Soldier_. The HYDRA, neo-nazi jackass who dresses in leather, glares silently at him from corners, forgets to bring him meals, and never ever properly returns his attempts at conversation. _That_ Winter Soldier... was human enough to not only remember Steve’s request in the midst of being snapped at, but held on to the idea all this time, and actually acted on it.

The soldier brought him food and in a roundabout way helped keep him relatively safe, but he’d never gone out of his way before in such a manner to give a luxury to Steve. A luxury, Steve realized, that could also double as a weapon if he tried hard enough. He was sure the thought had also occurred to the soldier too, but Steve immediately knew he wasn’t going to use the pencil for that. It was a dumb decision to make, for Steve to value being able to draw over potentially aiding his escape, but this was a gift, _goddamnit_. It was then that Steve realized that maybe his judgment was compromised, when he was unwilling to betray the kindness of his captor.

Steve had almost forgotten said captor was even in the room until a shadow fidgeted, too lost in dizzying thought and emotion to pay attention. The little shift from the soldier almost seemed to have been on purpose, because when Steve looked up to survey Bucky with a flinch, their eyes locked. The soldier had obviously been watching Steve, like he was so prone to doing, but now, if Steve allowed himself to be creative, he could almost imagine the other man looked concerned.

Belatedly, Steve realized that a few thin teardrops had leaked out the corners of his eyes and were slowly trailing their way down his face. Bucky was still staring at Steve intently, looking very lost. Breaking his gaze away, Steve turned to the side and scrubbed away the tears with one last sniffle, face flushing with the embarrassment of being caught crying. Over a pencil.

“I... I’m okay. Thank you. For this. I... I didn’t know you were even listening... back then...” Steve trailed off weakly, half watching Bucky out of the corner of his eye. The man was still pressed back against the wall, but Steve couldn’t read his expression. After a long, painful moment, Bucky simply nodded in that curt, robotic way of his. Despite the underwhelming nature of the gesture, Steve finds himself feeling unbearably fond.

Then, seemingly out of nowhere, the soldier unstuck himself from the wall and nodded to the tray on Steve’s bed. “Eat...” he instructed, voice raspy but soothingly soft. “Food is getting cold.”

Steve could only gape quietly when Bucky left, steps rolling and silent, like a cat’s.

 

It’s some ungodly hour of the morning when Steve steps away from the wall, hand and shoulder cramping, but he barely feels them. Etched out roughly from floor to ceiling, wall to wall, is the semblance of Steve’s old apartment, the one back in Brooklyn. It’s shabby and small, living room butting right up to the tiny kitchen, but Steve hasn’t added or subtracted anything to make it more grand or less worn in. The way it is, it’s homey, and that’s the point. It’s home. Or a drawing of it anyway. The scale it’s done up in, Steve can almost ignore where he’s standing and imagine he’s looking in to the apartment from the creaky front door. There’s no shading and lots of mistakes, but Steve’s dulled his pencil down scraping it over the concrete as he draws, and now there’s nothing left. But what he’s got, it’s enough.

Bucky’s unexpected thoughtfulness did a number on Steve, left him emotional and restless and nearly sick with loneliness. Drawing home had been a dumb idea because it only seemed to make those feelings worse and put blisters back on his fingers, but the simple act of laying out lines over a blank canvas reminded Steve of what it felt like to be home, not only physically, but mentally, in his element and untouchable in his focus.

Like the unlocking of the door, the gift of the pencil was a seemingly insignificant boon, but here in the cold and the grey and the quiet, it was everything. The pencil itself wasn’t much, but whether Bucky knew it or not, he’d given Steve back a part of himself. It felt so good, so unearned, Steve could cry all over again. He had been given so much, yet he still had so little. He was sad and alone, as far from home as physically possible, and locked away for potentially the rest of his life, if he ended up dying here, trying to escape or even at the hands of Rumlow, or even the soldier.

But then again, the soldier, who had once seemed the most likely candidate to be Steve’s death now seemed the least threatening. Steve did not make the mistake of assuming that Bucky was the least dangerous, not by a long shot, but now... Steve almost... trusted him. The soldier was predictable, if not companionable, but he was still such an enigma to Steve.

What kind of man worked for HYDRA, dressed like something out of a comic book, carried that many weapons, but still stopped a fellow agent from beating the crap out of Steve, and for lack of a better term, took him home? The more Steve thought about it, the less the Winter Soldier made sense. He had no idea what the man’s job was, hadn’t seen him take direct orders, but he clearly didn’t keep normal shift hours, or dress like any regular goon. Steve figured that he wasn’t in charge either, because of the way he’d interacted with Rumlow. Like they were equals, if not friends, and Steve knew that Rumlow wasn’t the head of HYDRA. That much was abundantly clear just on the journey over to the base. The man was high up there, but he still answered to someone. Pierce, or Price, maybe, Steve remembered hazily overhearing.

With a great sigh, Steve gave up on staring forlornly at his wall and crawled onto the bed to draw the covers up around himself in a meager nest, the Winter Soldier still weighing heavily on his mind. HYDRA agents had no humanity. That much Steve knew. Sure, it was an organization made up of men, and men were capable of sympathy and things much greater than that, but they were also capable of such depravity... It was only the later quality that HYDRA encouraged. So far, Steve realized, he’d seen no depravity from Bucky, but significant amounts of sympathy, and even a stunted sort of kindness, through all of the awkward visits and searching looks.

It finally clicked with Steve that the Winter Soldier didn’t belong. Not in the way that was natural. The “offness” he had about him was more than just aloof impatience, but now Steve was realizing, it was almost as if the man just didn’t _know how_ to react to Steve. To human contact. Bucky looked so lost all of the time, so unsure in his very deadly skin when he was around Steve. The only time Steve had seen the soldier act confidently was when he’d faced off with Rumlow, and that was only a hazy memory now, half addled with fear and starvation and adrenaline.

He didn’t know where Bucky had come from, or how he’d ended up here, but now Steve was beginning to get the feeling that there was much more to the situation he’d wound up in than he could fathom, and that the Winter Soldier was at the center of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not letting you in Bucky's head this time around, but I can safely assure you that the next chapter will have lots about our mysterious pal. Thanks for reading, as always.
> 
> As of Oct 12, 2016 I have decided to take a hiatus on this project. I'm really sorry and hate to do this to those of you who are so encouraging and are following the story, but I would rather take a break to focus on real life for now than write rushed chapters that won't get the attention they deserve. Thank you so much for understanding, and I hope to be back soon!


End file.
